I'm a transplanted Brit, living in Greece for the past quarter of a century.
Long of limb, broad of beam, open of mind and impatient of nature, I can sometimes wreak havoc without meaning to.
But I MEAN well....

Friday, 29 July 2016

It hit me like a tic, a twitch of the eye. A silent stutter amid the
jammering, hammering of everyday. A misstep of a mind on the edge of sleep,
just before falling too deep into myself in the swaying motion of the morning
commute.

It brought me rushing to the surface with a sharp sigh, looking around
and wondering if I was the only one to feel it. I saw nothing in the strap-hangers
and earbudded nodding dogs bouncing to their internal riffs. No missed beat. No
chord change. Not even a new narrative.

Just blank looks and preservation, the tools that get us through our
day, to earn us a right to say that we’ve done our bit, made a contribution,
mattered.

Collaboration is our default setting. We assimilate, isolate,
congregate, denigrate. Annihilate The Other to make The Whole stronger, and abandon
the dregs to see their hopes and minds shattered on the hard city streets.

A disconnect. That’s what I felt. A detachment from the hive mind, a glancing
butterfly wingbeat of empathy with The Other. The enemy. The thing we fear the
most. Them.

Just a flutter of emotion, faint but powerful enough to bring the
careful construct crashing down like a pile of wooden bricks.

I know my place, I always have. Somewhere right in the middle, maybe a
little higher. Just enough to offer the illusion of the individual, while
holding up the façade.

But if I was to step outside, would it feel the strain, or remain? And what’s
in my name, when we’re all the same. Am I Stella, or Hope, or just plain Jayne?

Does anybody know, anybody care? Is there anybody out there? In that
place we think there’s order, solid as a rock, strong even to squash the
mocking mutters of the underworld and pretend it just isn’t there.

Stepping off the train, and felt it again. More than a twitch now, like a
rough hand brushing against my cheek, enough to give me a peek into the shadows
and tune into the whispers getting louder. Vibrating with emotion, stripped of devotion to the glue that binds us all.

The crowd waiting to ride the stairs moved wordlessly towards open air.
No second glances, no raised brows. Could I really be the only one to feel the
pull to the other side? Was it there for them all, just smothered by fear that
it would wreck their comfort zone like an angry teen trashing their bedroom in a
tantrum?

Riding up to the light, I looked up into an urgent laser gaze of another heading
down. A glancing connection, a shock of recognition, an unspoken knowing. In
the time it took for our paths to cross on twin escalators, a minute warning
shake of the head stopped me from crying out, flying out of my proper place to scream
out, to shout

Nothing is real, you’ve
got to feel.

Forget 'Keep calm and carry on'.

We’re all ticking mind bombs.

Wake up and smell the garbage.

Of course, I didn’t. It was just too big, too scary, too…. everything, to step out of my slot and into
the outcasts.

So, I screwed in my earplugs, tuned in to the community hum and drowned
out the coda throbbing from the dark corners. I’m a creature of the light,
after all, a responsible citizen with rights and responsibilities, a duty to do
and a role to play.

I offered my wrist to the scanner as I entered the Square and dared to
hope no-one there picked up the high notes of my fleeting rebellion. I smiled my automaton smile, walked on, and prayed that they would (please) forget
my name.

Saturday, 23 July 2016

In a trial lasting just one
day, the self-proclaimed “People’s Prophet” has been found guilty of sedition,
disturbance of the peace and unspecified charges believed to be linked to a
suspected terrorist plot.

The trial was held in camera, closed to the press and
public, due to the sensitive nature of the case. The 37-year-old defendant
refused to enter a plea, and did not contest the charges. At the request of the
court, he will undergo further psychiatric tests before his sentence is pronounced.

There was a heavy police
presence outside the court building in anticipation of possible protests.
However, in sharp contrast to their vocal presence at public meetings and
rallies in the days leading up to his arrest, none of the accused’s followers
joined the press outside the court to hear the verdict.

Chief Prosecutor, Theodore
Fitzgerald, told reporters that the open-and-shut nature of the case confirmed
the accused had no defence.

“Let this be a lesson to
those who aspire to undermine the stability of our society,” he added. “So-called
charismatic leaders are nothing without their followers, and as you can see,
the People’s Prophet’s followers quickly evaporated.

“The status quo prevails.”

(This is the sixth and final part of "Witness: A modern parable". Click to read Parts One, Two, Three, Four and Five.)

Thursday, 21 July 2016

A woman has been found dead
of a suspected drug overdose in an abandoned apartment used by squatters in
Lilac Grove. The unidentified deceased, thought to be in her late twenties, was
discovered after neighbours reported a suspicious smell. Foul play is not
suspected.

Graveside

Peter stood alone in the
unpopular far corner of the graveyard, looking down at the anonymous hump of
soil that now covered the cheap cardboard coffin. It had been an hour since the
gravedigger had gone but he wasn’t ready to leave. Not quite yet.

A sparrow hopped down from
the branches of a nearby tree, now in full blossom, and started picking at the
disturbed dirt. Drab, but full of life, it darted here and there, looking for
bugs to feed its nestlings.

Peter watched the bird as he
pulled a crumpled pack of Lucky Strikes from his coat pocket. Lighting the last
cigarette and drawing deeply on its first sharp smoke, he wondered if he’d done
the right thing.

He’d known the minute he
spotted the lonely paragraph in the bottom right-hand corner of page 8 of the
day-old newspaper. Lilac Grove – that’s where they’d first found her over a
year ago, and he was sure it was where she’d gone when everything fell apart. And
when he read “suspected drug overdose” he knew that, after all, she hadn’t found
the strength to resist her old ways after her new all-too-human addiction was
taken away from her.

He’d worried that he’d face
an interrogation when he turned up at the city morgue offering to pay for the
funeral, especially after being questioned by the police that night. But no-one
raised an eyebrow. It was old news by then. No-one made the connection between the
death of yet another anonymous junkie with soon-to-be-forgotten events of last
month. They hadn’t even bothered to look through her meagre belongings – just a
few clothes, the old Zippo lighter Peter had used to light his cigarette, and a
journal which now sat in his backpack.

These days, it wasn’t
unusual for the well-meaning to pay for a “decent send-off” to one of the army
of unnamed, unloved and unclaimed who came through the city morgue’s gun metal
grey doors. No headstone, of course, but at least someone to acknowledge that
they had once been, and now were no more.

The bored clerk had shrugged
when he’d replied that no, he hadn’t known the woman. She just filled in the
form with the false details he gave, and took his handful of notes to cover the
costs of the paperwork, a flimsy box and a man to dig the hole. Without once
meeting his eyes, she’d handed over the receipt, then gave him the plot number,
a time and date two days later if he wanted to be there “when they put her in
the ground”.

That was it. No more
ceremony than paying a parking fine. There’d been no ceremony to the burial
either. No priest to churn out tired platitudes, no mourners, no flowers. Just him,
the gravedigger, and the sparrow.

Peter took a last drag on
the cigarette. He let the dog-end fall and ground it into the damp grass with
the heel of his shoe. The sparrow eyed him and hopped over to the spot to see if
what he’d dropped might be a tasty morsel.

Putting his hands back in
his pockets, he murmured “Goodbye, Magda”, turned, and walked away.

(This is the fifth of six parts of 'Witness - A modern parable'.Click for Parts One, Two, Three and Four.)

Tuesday, 19 July 2016

In the
end, I gave in. Of course I did. I let Jimmy walk me to the dirty old sofa and
lie me down. I let him tighten the strap on my arm, and I watched him cook up
the sludge in a teaspoon.

I knew
what it promised and was ready for it—even the horrific heaving I knew would
come afterwards. I’d lost everything. I just wanted to stop hurting, to feel
like I was kissing an angel one last time.

I
watched as he tapped the needle and gently eased it into the vein. A wave of
relaxation swept over me, washing away my hurt, making me feel like I could
reach out and touch heaven. Nothing mattered except my bliss.

I
didn’t even mind when Jimmy opened the door and lead three faceless men in.

I woke
this morning, bloody and bruised. I must have thrown up thirty times; there’s
nothing left to bring up and yet the heaves continue. I feel like I’ve been used,
turned inside-out and thrown away in the corner like an old burger wrapper. I
probably have.

Then I
saw it. Another package on the table with a handwritten note from Jimmy: “Welcome back, darling. This one’s on the
house.”

(This is the fourth part of 'Witness - A modern parable'. Click for Parts One, Two and Three.)

Sunday, 17 July 2016

The yellow legal pad shone
like a beacon against the jumble of papers strewn across her desk.

A
steaming cup of coffee she’d hoped would help focus her thoughts sat next to an
ashtray that smelt of lost weekends and defeated dreams. It was crowded with
squashed cigarette butts—some smoked down to the chemical sting of their
filter, others abandoned halfway in disgust or distraction.

Anna rubbed her eyes and
stretched in her seat as she tried to reboot her brain to make sense of the
papers littering the tabletop like super-sized confetti.

It wasn’t her case she was working on, she was only assisting. But she felt
involved, intrigued. It was one of the oddest cases she’d ever come across—even
in the pages of all those textbooks she’d waded through at law school. The
facts were unremarkable, but the people involved and the circumstances
surrounding it would make it memorable.

She couldn’t see what all the
fuss was about. Why so much pressure to convict and punish the sad, silent man
who’d refused to take the stand, offer any kind of defense or even recognise
the court? Of course, there was the hint of a terrorist plot, but she hadn’t
found anything to support that amid the reams of papers.

Sure, he’d stirred up some
unrest, but that was hardly remarkable in these days of disenfranchisement,
disenchantment and the ever-widening gap between rich and poor, was it? Every
Tom, Dick and Harriet was out there rabble-rousing these days—and a good few on
the extreme who backed up their angry words with knuckle-dusters and knives had
been overlooked by the authorities. So why pick on the bedraggled figure who
had sat staring at his hands neatly folded in his cheap-suited lap at the
initial court hearing?

But who was she to question? A high profile case would
look good on her resume, especially as a conviction looked like a certainty,
albeit one she wasn’t really comfortable about.

Taking a sip from her coffee
and lighting a fresh cigarette, Anna looked back down at the photocopied letter
in a clear plastic folder. It was only background, circumstantial, unimportant
to the case, but something about it kept drawing her back to it.

Dear Tom,

I’m writing to you because I know that you haven’t
been swept up in the madness. You’re a rational man, not one to get caught up
in the mania that’s infected those desperate to believe something more than the
simple truth.

I don’t suppose you’re happy to get this letter. I
know I’m not going to win any popularity contests from now on. But I hope
you’ll read on.

You must be wondering why I did what I did. I had no
choice, or so I thought. Now, I hate what I’ve done, what I’ve become. But I
couldn’t let things carry on like they were, hurtling at break-neck speed
towards destruction. I had to do something to pull him back from the brink
before his madness ate him alive, and perhaps salvage something of the dream of
mending a broken world that had brought us all together in the beginning.

I believed in him from the start. I saw something that
could lead us to something better, kinder. I became his right-hand man, his
most passionate advocate. Even—I hoped—his friend.

But something changed.I’m not quite sure when I first saw it, that odd look
in his eye. Something more than the spark that lit a fire in us—it was the
glint of mania. It didn’t help that that she was always there,
whispering nonsense in his ear about him being “The One”. Soon, he started
believing his own words just as completely as the sheep around him.

I still loved him. I still do. But he scared me.

I had helped him weave a web of pretty half-truths and
I could see it was heading for something nasty, loud, maybe dangerous, and
definitely too much of a threat to be ignored. And he’d be the one to pay the
price.

I thought I could save him from himself. That's why I
went to the press, and then the police. I really thought they’d just pick him
up and deliver him to calm-voiced, white-coated experts in quiet,
pastel-painted corridors who would soothe him, exorcise his demons, help him
see things as they really are.

But I was wrong. They chewed me up and spat me out
like an old piece of gum, making sure that I knew full well that it was me who sealed
his fate.Now I’m hated,
reviled, forever branded a traitor. Even you turned away when I tried to
explain.

That’s why I’ll be lying on a cold slab by the time
you read this.

I’m more sorry than anyone can ever know. I hope you
can forgive me.

Don’t give up. We need people like you to make a
difference. We just don’t need any more martyrs.

Jude

No matter how many times Anna
read the letter, it got to her. Something kept pulling her back to the dead
man’s words. A sense of affinity, despite herself.

An urgent bleep brought her
back from her thoughts. A text from Theo, her boss, reminding her that he
needed the papers on his desk by 8am tomorrow—in just six hours.

His words as he gave her the
assignment echoed through her mind: “Let’s get this fruitcake sorted, so
people like you and me can get on with things.” Like she was part of
some secret cabala of privilege that couldn’t afford to let the boat rock too
much.

Perhaps she was?

(This is Part Three of a modern parable in six parts. Click for Parts One and Two)

Friday, 15 July 2016

This statement is true to
the best of my knowledge and belief, and I make it in the knowledge that I may
be prosecuted if it contains any false information.

Name: Peter Steinman Date:
11 March 2016

On the
evening of 10 March, I took a short cut through Grove Park on my way home from
work at the central fish market. At the north-east end of the park, I saw a
group of men sitting around a fire, listening to a tall man in a long coat. I
had never seen them before, but stopped to listen to what he was saying out of
curiosity. I couldn’t hear clearly so I got closer, and was invited by one of
the men sitting on the ground to join them.

I
listened for a while, but wasn’t impressed by what I heard. As I started to get
up to leave, a red-haired man came out of the trees surrounding the clearing
and approached the tall man. After he greeted him, policemen entered the
clearing and stopped anyone from leaving. The tall man was arrested.

I explained
that I was just a bystander and showed the police officer who detained me my ID
and work pass. He said I would have to come to the station to give a statement.

I was put
in a police van along with nine or ten others, but the tall man was handcuffed
and put into a police car. I didn’t see him again. No-one spoke in the van, but
several exchanged worried looks.

At the
police station, I repeated that I did not know the tall man, that I had nothing
to do with the gathering and that I was just a passer-by. I explained what I
had heard, but could not give any information about the name of the group or
their apparent goals.

After signing this
statement, and giving his full contact details, the witness was advised that he
may be called upon to testify at any future trial and was allowed to return to
his residence. He was released unconditionally at approximately 09.35 hours on
12 March 2016.

Magda’s Journal: 29 March

Jimmy
came to visit today. I didn’t have anything to offer him but he was fine with
that. I could make up for it later, he said. He was messing about with
something in the kitchen. No idea what. There’s no food in the house.

He left
a package on the table for me. I know what’s in it. How could I not? I’m trying
to pretend it’s not there, but it keeps pulling me back with its promise of
sweet emptiness and an end to the pain. I’ve bitten my lip raw trying to
resist. I don’t know how much longer I can hold out – or if I even want to.

(This is Part Two of a modern parable in six parts. Click here for Part One.)

Thursday, 14 July 2016

I woke
up shivering as the first light of the day crept through the blinds. I’d fallen
asleep in the armchair again, TV blaring out the same old, same old. The morning chill
made my bare legs look like chicken flesh, so I pulled on my jeans and went
looking for some socks. Then to the kitchen to make some tea. Black. I haven’t
left the flat to get milk - or anything else - for days.

I can’t
seem to get enough of the news these days. It’s nothing but doom and gloom but
I can’t stop watching. Like an obsession, addiction even. Can’t bear the
thought that I might miss something. Some special message, meant only for me,
hidden in the reports.

I tell
myself to snap out of it. Move on. But how can I? I’d built myself a new life,
and now it’s been smashed to pieces.

So I
sit here, all day, watching the flickering screen, hoping for a sign. Waiting
patiently, loyally, for the call. When it comes, I’ll be ready.

The Evening Star – 25 March

'People’s Prophet' to stand trial on terrorism charges

A cult leader accused of
masterminding a terrorist plot to bring down the Government is to stand trial.
A preliminary hearing today ruled that the 37-year-old accused, who refused to
give a name or address, was mentally competent to face the unspecified charges.

Throughout the ten-minute
hearing, the self-proclaimed ‘People’s Prophet’ refused to acknowledge the
court or enter a plea. He also waived his right to legal counsel.

Due to national security
concerns, the trial will be held in
camera, closed to the press and public.

Magda’s Journal: 26 March

I saw
him on the news. He looked so small, so lost, alone, in a badly fitting suit
that only someone with a grudge could have picked out.

They
all thought he was invincible. I was the only one who knew the lost little boy
behind all the fire, the passion. And I was the only one who could give him
what he needed, so he could give them what they needed.

But
now, he’s not talking to anyone and won’t see anyone. Or so they say.

None of
our friends are talking to me either. It’s like we never happened. They’ve all
gone to ground, denying they ever knew him.

I’m the only one left.

My
phone is filled with texts from reporters. The same ones who dismissed us as
deluded hippies before. They’re clambering over themselves and drooling at the
thought of an exclusive. They’ll get nothing from me.

There’s
one person I can talk to, even though it’s been more than a year since I swore
I’d have nothing more to do with him. A year since I put myself through the
wringer and came out the other end, clean. And for what?

Jimmy
sent me a text as soon as the news broke. He was still my friend, he said. He
was there for me if I needed anything, he said. We all know what ‘anything’ he
was thinking about, don’t we?

Old
habits die hard, especially when they carry the promise of blissful escape.

A Letter from Thomas

Dear Magda,

By the
time you get this letter, I’ll be gone. I’ll post it before I board the ferry,
but I won’t tell you where I’m going. It’s better you don’t know.

I hope
you’ve managed to stay clean and healthy. I know it’s hard for you, with
everything that’s happened. It’s hard for us all. I had to get away. Sorry I
couldn’t stay.

You
should leave too. Nothing good will come from waiting around for some kind of
miracle to happen. You’ve got to start thinking about what’s best for you now.
Forget him, and start putting Magda first, for once.

I know
you won’t. You never would listen when I tried to reason with you about his
so-called “mission”. You were always free of the doubts that haunted me, but
I’m afraid that certainty will hurt you now.

We’ve
had our differences, but I always cared for you. Now, I can’t bear the thought
of you falling back into the life you had before. I have to try, at least one
more time, to get you to see reason.

Please,
think about it. He’s not worth it. You are.

With
love,

Thomas

Magda’s Journal: 28 March

I left
the flat yesterday. After seeing him on the news, I decided I had to see him,
let him know I was still his.

I
showered, put on clean clothes, even fixed my hair, and took the bus. Though my
heart was pounding in my ears and my hands shaking the whole way, I knew it
would be worth it just to see his face again, hear him speak - only for me.

But he
made them turn me away. He wouldn’t even leave the cell.

How could he be so
cruel?

After everything I’ve done for him? Giving up everything I knew to give
him the comfort that only I could see he needed?

When I
got back, the letter from Thomas was waiting for me. I knew what it would say, but I read
it anyway. Blah, blah, blah. He thinks he’s so logical, so superior. He just
doesn’t understand. His precious letter’s now just another piece of paper
gathering teacup stains on the table. It doesn’t mean a thing.